The first thing Teïkō felt was pain.
Not the sharp, immediate kind that made you scream, but a deep, spreading ache that seemed to live inside his bones. It was everywhere at once—his arms, his chest, his legs, even his head. It felt as if his body had been taken apart piece by piece and reassembled without care, tightened just enough to function, but no more.
He groaned softly.
His eyelids were unbearably heavy, like they had been glued shut. For a long moment, he didn't even try to open them. He focused instead on breathing. In. Out. Each breath scraped his throat, dry and uncomfortable, but it told him one important thing.
He was alive.
When he finally forced his eyes open, light flooded his vision.
White.
Too white.
A ceiling stretched above him, perfectly still, unbroken by smoke or flame. It didn't flicker. It didn't collapse. It didn't roar.
It wasn't the sky.
Realization hit him like a delayed shock.
He sucked in a sharp breath and instinctively tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through him.
His vision blurred as his body screamed in protest, and he collapsed backward with a choked gasp, landing against something soft. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him coughing weakly.
"…Ghh—"
Something soft.
Something firm.
A couch?
That single word sent his thoughts spiraling.
Couch?
His heartbeat accelerated. Slowly, cautiously, as if afraid reality might break if he moved too fast, Teïkō turned his head.
He wasn't in the hangar.
He wasn't surrounded by fire or smoke or twisted metal.
He was inside an apartment.
Small, but tidy. The walls were a warm, neutral color. A bookshelf lined one side of the room, filled with books of various sizes, some old and worn, others newer, their spines neat and orderly. A low coffee table sat in front of the couch—too low, almost impractically so. Light curtains hung by the window, gently glowing with daylight filtering through.
The air was warm.
Still.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
His breathing quickened as his mind tried to catch up. The last thing he remembered was heat. The unbearable heat. The window. Simon's face. His own hands slipping.
Fire.
Teïkō's gaze dropped to his body.
His arms were wrapped in clean bandages, layered carefully, not hastily. His chest was bound as well, snug but not tight enough to restrict his breathing. His clothes—
They weren't his.
Gone were the scorched, smoke-stained clothes he had worn that night. Instead, he wore a loose shirt and soft pants, both clean, both unfamiliar. They smelled faintly of detergent and something else… soap, maybe.
His heart began to pound.
"…What the…"
His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. It didn't sound like him.
He swallowed and tried again, forcing himself to move slowly this time. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself halfway upright, resting his back against the couch cushions. His muscles trembled under the effort, but he managed to stay up.
Before he could think further, a voice broke the silence.
Calm.
Light.
Almost cheerful.
"About time! I was starting to worry, you know."
Teïkō flinched so hard he nearly fell off the couch.
"Who— Who are you?!" he blurted out, panic surging as he instinctively tried to stand.
His legs betrayed him instantly. Pain shot through his knees and hips, and he collapsed back down with a sharp hiss, fists clenching into the cushions in frustration.
A figure stepped into view.
A man calmly pulled out a chair and sat down directly across from him, as if this were the most natural situation in the world.
He looked to be in his early fifties. His hair was gray, not neatly styled but not unkempt either, as if he simply didn't bother worrying about it. His face bore the lines of age and experience, but there was nothing harsh about it. If anything, he looked… kind. Welcoming. His posture was straight, relaxed, confident in a way that didn't feel forced.
He smiled at Teïkō like an old acquaintance.
"You really should take it easy," the man said, tilting his head slightly. "If you keep trying to jump up like that, you'll open your wounds. And that would be a pain for both of us."
Teïkō stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Answer my question," he said, forcing steel into his voice despite the fear crawling up his spine. "Who are you?"
The man blinked once, then nodded.
"Fair enough." He placed a hand on his chest. "My name is Yora Yamikase."
The name didn't ring a bell.
Yora continued, unfazed by Teïkō's silence.
"I'm the one who pulled you out of the flames," he said simply. "And brought you here."
The words hit him harder than the pain.
Pulled you out of the flames.
The heat came rushing back in his mind. The roar. The suffocating smoke. The way his grip had slipped. The way gravity had taken him.
Simon.
Teïkō jolted upright again, ignoring the pain entirely this time.
"Simon—!" His voice cracked. "What about Simon? And the others? What happened to them?!"
Yora's expression softened. He let out a quiet sigh.
"Ah… so you weren't alone," he said gently. "I wondered."
He leaned back slightly, folding his hands together.
"When I found you, you were unconscious," he continued. "You were badly burned, and you had inhaled a lot of smoke. I didn't see anyone else nearby."
Teïkō's stomach twisted.
"You were alone," Yora finished. "I'm sorry."
The room seemed to grow smaller.
Teïkō lowered his gaze, fingers curling into the fabric of his borrowed clothes. Alone. That word echoed in his head.
So they escaped.
Or—
He cut that thought off before it could finish.
Slowly, deliberately, he looked back at Yora, studying him. His posture. His tone. His eyes. Everything.
Can I trust him?
Yora seemed to notice the scrutiny. He chuckled softly and stood up.
"Hmm… that look," he said, turning toward the kitchen area. "You don't trust me. Understandable."
He walked over to the stove and lifted the lid of a pot.
Instantly, a rich, savory aroma filled the apartment.
It was warm. Comforting. Real.
Teïkō's stomach growled loudly.
He froze.
Yora laughed.
"Well, that answers one question," he said amusedly. "You're definitely alive."
Teïkō scowled faintly, embarrassed, but couldn't deny it. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until that moment. The smell wrapped around him, making his mouth water despite himself.
"If you don't feel safe here," Yora continued casually, stirring the contents of the pot, "you're free to leave whenever you want."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"I'm not holding you hostage. I don't do that kind of thing."
Teïkō looked toward the door.
Then at his bandaged arms.
Then at his trembling legs.
Another growl escaped his stomach.
"…Fi— finally…" he muttered.
Yora raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
Teïkō sighed, shoulders slumping slightly.
"…I think," he said reluctantly, "I can stay for a bit."
Yora burst into laughter.
"Oh, thank goodness!" he said cheerfully. "I was worried I'd have to eat all of this alone."
He poured a generous portion of stew into a bowl and walked back, handing it to Teïkō carefully.
The bowl was warm in his hands.
The stew smelled incredible.
Teïkō hesitated for a moment, then took a cautious bite.
His eyes widened instantly.
"…This is really good."
Yora crossed his arms proudly. "Of course it is. A man has to have at least one talent."
Teïkō let out a quiet, surprised laugh before he could stop himself.
As he ate, slowly, carefully, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. His body still hurt. His mind was still full of unanswered questions. His heart still ached for his friends.
But for the first time since the fire, the warmth he felt didn't burn.
And for now… that was enough.